Formalities long forgotten
by Cariganna
Summary: PostHBP. A tortured Severus Snape, barely alive, must return to the place he most fears to rescue an infurating expupil. HGSS. Please R&R! Oh, and I'm editing the earlier chapters, so forgive repostings!
1. Night of the Final Battle

Prologue

Arthur and Mollie Weasley stood in the hall, silent tears coursing down their faces. Arthur put a shaking arm around his wife and pulled her towards him. Taking a handkerchief out of his robe, he gently wiped his wife's face off. He scrubbed the dirt and blood off and looked deeply into her eyes. Wrapping his arms tightly around her, he kissed her on the forehead.

And together they waited.

In the room next to them a half dozen of St. Mungo's medi-witches rushed about, applying healing charms and powdered doxy wings. A magically amplified heartbeat filled the room and gave small hope to the medi-witches, but even as they worked they could hear the beats getting softer and farther apart. All at once, a shrieking alarm went off and all movement stopped.

"Pasarse," a grave medi-witch standing at the head of the bed whispered hoarsely causing the alarm to quit screeching. Sighing, she pulled the sheets over the brilliant red head. Closing her eyes for a second, she steeled herself. _Dammit, that's the third one in an hour we've lost. _Nothing more could be done though.

"Okay, good try team. Further assignments are as follows. Emendis and Asistan- Room 1A; Optim- 3B; the rest to 2E … Good luck. It's going to be a long night." _A very long night, _she added to herself. The door opened and a stream of tired and disheveled medi-witches streamed out, parting in different directions to their next assignment.

The grave witch stepped out last, closing the door behind her. A couple stood, watching her with fear in their eyes. Judging by the bright red hair, these were the victim's parents. Summoning the memory of the quick glance she had given the patient file, she stepped forward.

"Mr. and Mrs. Arthur Weasley?" she questioned quietly.

The women opened her mouth to confirm, but instead just nodded.

"I'm Healer Anya Gwo. I'm sorry to have to tell you this,"- and at this the women sucked in a deep breath- "but your son Ronald Weasley didn't make it. We did all we could, but He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named has a unique brand of magic that doesn't respond to healing. He lost consciousness about 5 minutes ago and soon after…" She stopped not wanting to rub salt in the wound. Her eyes glistened dangerously as she watched the couple fall to the ground, sobbing. "I'm so sorry," She whispered softly so that no one could hear her as she turned away and walked to her office.

A quick spell later, the distracting emotions floated in a Penseive and Senior Healer Anya was once again ready to put on a brave face. She should really join Healers Emendis and Asistan in room 1A. The patient in that room was a torture victim that was supposed to be very… challenging. Walking quietly but confidently down the stairs to the first floor, she glanced at the nametag: 'Severus Xenophin Snape'. _Hmmm, familiar._

She took one glance at the mangled body lying on the blood-red sheets and almost threw up. The face had been systematically scarred- the right ear scored, the other cut off entirely. His hands were mangled, with only two or three digits left, respectively. The feet had been badly twisted and all but three toes were removed. It looked as though all of the bones in his body had been broken. The see-through image of his chest showed internal bleeding and what looked like shards of something in his heart and consequently, his blood stream.

Taking a steady breath and recalling her medical practice, she strode over to Healer Emendis and Asistan who were talking at the head of the bed while other medi-witches scurried around the room, desperately trying to prolong the life of this man.

"What's the plan?" She spoke briskly. Time was important.

"We can do no more," said Asistan. Anya shot a quick look at Emendis who looked very bitter.

"Why not? There looks to be at least three-dozen breaks that can be mended, internal bleeding needs to be stemmed-"

"- Healer Asistan is of the opinion that it is a lost cause," Emendis spat out the words.

Anya, usually a fountain of opinions, was utterly dumbfounded "Nobody is a lost cause," she said icily.

Asistan spoke quickly to recover his grace, "Of course not, Senior Healer Gwo, but there is 42 people in critical need of trained medi-wizards on this floor alone. Not to mention the fact that we are greatly underhanded right now since many went to help the Muggles caught in the crossfire. To do this man any justice we would need a full dozen nurses and even then his chances are not good at all. Perhaps the task force would be better spent in helping those who can be saved."

Anya felt herself swell with rage but just as quickly felt herself deflate. _He's right. Damn the bastard. He's right._

"Very well," Anya forced herself to say. "Order everyone to different posts. Emendis, you will stay with Mr. Snape and do the very best you can." And in a very rare show of emotion, she gave him an awkward hug. "If anyone can do miracles, you can."

And with that, she was gone.

For the next sixteen hours, Emendis did his best. Resorting to Muggle means to stem the blood, he made good use of tourniquets and pressure points. He mended a grand total of 118 bones, and one by one magically pulled the largest of the shards of glass out of the mans bloodstream. At the end of those sixteen hours, Emendis sealed his torso closed once more, checked his vitals, used a small nutrition spell to feed the man, and fell asleep on the floor next to him.

_It had been the night of the Final Battle._


	2. Creachurs of 'abit

"Creachurs of 'abit"

It had been five months since the night of the last battle. And Snape was getting thoroughly pissed. He was still in St. Mungo's since no matter how hard they tried none of the 'normal' healing methods had worked. So five friggin months later, here he sat, barely ambulatory and being force-fed pudding by some 4-foot _thing _who called himself Emendis.

Oblivious of Snape's thoughts, Emendis smiled at the man and got another spoonful of pudding ready.

_Oh shit, _thought Snape,_ What if the little twat is attracted to me?_ Emendis misinterpreted the look of disgust that crossed Snape's face as a reaction to the pudding.

"There, there," he said, patting Snape tenderly on the knee, "I have something else you can eat." With that he reached into his robes and pulled out…

…his wand. "I'll conjure you up some soup, shall I?" (A/N So sorry, you thought there was gonna be some gay smut. None of that here /)

Snape felt a red tint rise to his face and glared suspiciously around the room as if daring some unknown spectrum to fade out of the shadows and taunt him.

In some ways, the months had been much nicer to Hermione. For one thing she could move without sending fragments of glass through her system. She wasn't badly scared. At least, not in any place that a descent wizard would ever look. She was still in possession of all extremities, save a small notch in her ear. Never mind that though; her hair covered it anyway. And of course the mere fact that she could eat on her own gave her a massive hand-up to her former Potion Master.

But Hermione had changed. After the Final Battle she had tracked down all of her former alliances and, after taking stock of the world she had known, quietly disappeared out of it. Part of her argued that running away was the cowardly thing to do, but the other part screamed that it wasn't so cowardly to run away from a world that had brought her nothing but death. There had been a time where she had found friendship in that world. Friendship that had been denied her in the Muggle world, but after Ron's death and Harry's withdrawal from her, there had simply been no point.

So Hermione lived in a small apartment complex in eastern Berkshire. She worked a small insurance claim company and a surprising amount of her customers actually got what they had paid for, which in the insurance company was a rare thing. The life was monotonous and the work too simple to be of interest, but the hours were nice and long which left little time to think about all her loses. She had a set schedule and liked it that way.

It was two minutes past ten O'clock when Hermione slipped into the back of the rather skuzzy tavern. The bartender looked up from the mix he was concocting.

" 'Ello, Miss Granger. You're later than usual," He said gently.

"How are you, Bill. I thought tonight was your night off?" Was it sad that she knew the bartenders schedules? No, she decided, it would have been sad if she didn't. At least she still took in her surroundings, when sober.

He slid the concoction over the bar to her.

"Anticipating me?" She quirked an eyebrow, considering whether or not she should be offended.

"Us creachurs of 'abit are steady like tha', Miss Granger" he nodded and left to tend to other costumers. She glanced around the bar. It was busy tonight.

Sighing, she turned to the Long Island Iced Tea in front of her and sipped it, trying out the taste. Two parts vodka, just as she liked. After this, she would feel slightly better about downing a bottle of whisky. It was the same every night. Monotony.

She turned on the barstool and glanced at the table in the corner where she usually sat. It was occupied by a group of giggling teenagers. Probably just of drinking age and trying it out. They wouldn't be there long. Just as she finished the last of her drink, the trio rose and left, feigning drunkenness.

"Lightweights," the slightly drunk Hermione muttered as she took her newly opened bottle of whisky and staggered to the now vacant seating.

An hour later, Hermione was done with her whisky and considering buying more. She knew she shouldn't and shook her head wistfully, not yet wanting to stagger the two blocks to her apartment.

A hooded figure swept into the bar and ordered. He sat lightly on his stool while his cool gaze swept the room. It rested on Hermione.

He sipped his drink, savoring the unique flavor and watched her.

" 'Ave an eye on our Miss Granger?" came a voice behind him. He swirled around on the barstool and fixed his glare on Bill who was calmly drying out a mug.

"And who are you?" The hooded figure tried to muster in as much venom as he could and was surprisingly adept at it.

"Oh, I'm Bill, the bartender," Bill was unfazed, having seen to many broken people in drunken rages, "And tha's 'Ermione Granger. Go on and have a talk with 'er. She's one tha' needs company." Bless him. So thick…

"Indeed," the venomous man said. Standing, he strode to her.

His shadow fell on her, catching her attention. Without looking up she asked, "And how may I help you?"

"I was wondering if I might join you. I'll buy you a drink," he cut in smoothly. His voice was completely altered, almost silky.

She glanced up then, and studied him briefly. He wore a hooded cloak, which while normal in the wizarding world was very ominous normally. Hermione was too drunk to notice the difference though so she motioned him to sit down opposite her.

He sat down, rigid in his seat, and motioned for the bartender. In seconds, she was next to him. Hermione turned her glazed eyes to the man.

"I suppose I'll have a Zombie like his," she said, gesturing to the man's drink.

Twenty minutes of distant conversation later, she swayed in her seat. "Forgive me, but I should be going," her slur was barely audible.

"Of course," the man said. "Should I walk you to your car?"

As if she could drive like this? "No, I'm walking."

She rose unsteadily and so did he, with a measure more grace.

"I'll walk with you, shall I?" he smirked, daring her to deny him.

"Okay then," she said and led the way out.

After a block, with him trailing behind her, she turned, "I'm sorry, but I didn't catch your name."

"You know it," his face twisted into a grin and became clear for just a second before she started to fall. The man stepped over her, catching her before she fell and a single strand of silvery blonde hair fell from underneath his hood.

"You're making this too easy," he sneered. His tone artic once more.

And then Hermione understood…

"Lucius…"

Kelly Roxton- The next chapter has a scene from the night of the last battle so you'll be able to see more what happened, And Hermione's scars play a big part in the story so…yeah. Thanks for reviewing big smiles

Duj- True, true, but wait! Wizards CAN hide….thanks for an idea!

Witchy-Misha- Thanks for your support! Trying times and all. So sad


	3. Red to the East

Flashback to the night of the Final Battle 

The sun rose red to the east. Senior Healer Anya was puzzled by a sudden snippet of knowledge that floated through her thoughts: a red sun rising meant blood had been spilt that night. She had always dismissed that as implausible divination nonsense, but perhaps she had been a little _overly_ dismissive. She had never held with Divination, preferring the sciences of Arithmancy and Potions much more. Pondering this, she rose from the window seat and settled behind her desk. She fished her wand out of her pocket and dipped it into the silvery liquid-like substance floating in the Penseive. Pulling the wand out again, she looked at the long tendril, leaning forward to peer closer.

She caught a glimpse of something green, wrapped tightly around a boy's throat. Pointing the wand at her own temple, she allowed the tendril to disappear. Ah, yes. The young boy, 19, name of Neville Longbottom…He had seemed strangely familiar, but no...He had been strangled, almost to death, by a hexed Devil's Snare. After the boy had been recalled to consciousness, he had asked if the plant was okay! She could still hear his voice, "But it was confused! It didn't know any better. It's a defense mechanism…" And off he went. Psychology for a plant? They had opted to do a central nervous scan, just in case the diagnostic spell had been wrong.

The next tendril was long. She peered at it and saw a flash of red. And another. And another. And another. Of course, she had combined these four cases when she had spoken to the parents. Regretfully, she reinserted that memory. _How sad for the parents_, she thought recovering her breath from the almost physical pain of that memory. She had been there to tell them of their son, Ronald's death, and had watched them miserably at the news. But the night had been much, much worse to them. After Ronald, they had lost George to a hex blast to the side of his head. Then, a daughter, to be graduating within the month, to a failure of three main organs. And then, the son missing, Charlie, was found. Dead, by the Aveda Kadavra curse, and…that poor family…someone had mangled his body, after his death, carving the Dark Mark into his flesh over and over.

It took her a minute of sad reflection before she dared to try another memory. The Aurors. Alastor "Mad Eye" Moody had fallen, taking no less then seven Death Eaters with him. Nymphadora Tonks, who had looked implausibly young to be an Auror had plunged into insanity, after prolonged torture under the Cruciatus Curse. She would most likely live out the remainder of her years in the Resident's Ward, next to the Longbottoms. _Of course_, she remembered suddenly. _The boy with the plant had been a Longbottom!_

Only one strand lay in the bottom of the Penseive now, taking a deep breath, she pulled out that one and saw something…large. It had never been done before, but here she sat, giving aid to a giant. Something by the name of Grawp…They had lost him, when they shouldn't have. But they had simply no idea how to help since magic rarely worked on giants. She had been mad when first seen the patient, thinking her time wasted on an oaf, but when she saw the big man crying for his…half-brother?…and seen the way the giant acted in his last few minutes alive, surely he had been half-blinded with pain…yet he had been…she refused to call it polite, some things were just too outlandish…but still mannered. And when they had lost him, she had felt sad, something she would never have thought possible for a giant.

She sighed loudly into the room and thought dryly about how many times she had done that in the last 24 hours. Rising, she stretched out her back, hearing her spine crack. She glanced at the window and was taken aback by how late it suddenly seemed. Rushing out of the room, she suddenly transformed from the weary Anya to the confident Senior Healer that was expected of her. Her first duty would be to check on all the patients and see how the night had fared.

Pausing before the door of room 1A, she felt her heart drop. Patient: Severus Xenophin Snape. Of all of the torture victims, he had been the worse. Despite her protestations earlier that no one was a lost cause, she doubted he had survived the night. _Dammit! I had meant to check on him last night_, she silently berated herself as she walked into the room. _Let him be alive. Oh Merlin, let him be alive_.

He was.

Despite everything…he was. Anya stood there, studying his stats, and while not at all what they should be…he was alive! And then, Senior Healer Anya Gwo, age sixty three, did something that she had not once in her entire conscious life remember doing before, she leapt into the air and whooped for joy. Thrusting her hands up into the air, she began to dance.

The startled head of Enendis appeared over the side of the bed. "Umm…-" Emendis cut into one of Anya's more intricate dance moves-a sort of hip wiggle-

"Emendis! I thought I was…well, obviously I wasn't alone… so never mind that," Anya was thoroughly embarrassed at her lack of professionalism.

"I won't say a thing. You can continue, if you'd like." Cheeky devil.

"Unlikely," Anya said, glaring at him icily. (Since clearly it was _his_ fault that she had been embarrassed)

"I understand though," came a much more serious reply. "It kind of gives you hope. If he could make it, I mean."

True. Anya allowed herself a small smile. Very true.

AUTHORS NOTE: I REALIZE THAT HER MEMORIES ARE VERY FRAGMENTED, BUT THE MOOD JUST SEEMED TO FIT IT BETTER. FOR SOME REASON IT SOUNDS VERY HALTED THOUGH AND I WONDER IF I DID THE RIGHT THING. INPUT PLEASE /…OH, AND ANYA REALLY CHANGED FROM THE 'GRAVE' WITCH WE SAW. SOMEHOW, I IMAGINED HER AS BEING A LITTLE BIT MORE SCATTER-BRAINED WHEN SHE HAD PUT HER MIND BACK IN PLACE. SERVES HER RIGHT FROM MESSING WITH HER MIND. WELL, REVIEW PLEASE!


	4. Crudus Libere

"Crudus Libere"

Hermione lay face down, her arm bent behind her in an awkward position. Slowly blinking back to consciousness, her mind fought to gain bearing on where she was. The smell of salt and fish assaulted her nostrils. Struggling, she twisted until her knees were underneath her. Checking to be sure that she was alone, she began to sit up only to be shoved roughly down again by the pair of boots that had remained elusive to her searching eyes. A sharp crack came from the arm still twisted behind her and she was momentarily blinded by pain. Her face was ground into the dirt as she slowly lost consciousness again. Struggling to focus, her eyes caught hold of the boots. _Dragon hide_, her mind told her even as they faded to gray.

The second time Hermione woke, the air, foul with the smell of decay, held no hint of salt. Distantly, she wondered why she had been moved. Lying still so as not to garner unwanted attention, she listened carefully. After a few minutes she allowed herself to move in little pieces. A sharp ache in her right shoulder reminded her of the broken bone; although why Lucius had not mended it lay beyond her grasp. Perhaps it was indicative of the treatment that she should expect as his captive. Pain for pain's sake. Groaning and rolling onto her side, she finally saw why she had been moved. Torches gave the cell an eerie ambiance, casting a faint wavering flame onto the manacles that lay above her head. Shadows danced, giving life to the silver spokes that covered the wall to her left. Leather straps crossed the large table that stood against the wall in front of her, stained black with dried blood.

Shaking, Hermione drew in a pained breath, but it didn't fill her lungs. Again, the oxygen wouldn't reach her. She must be under some jinx. She was going to die. Breathe. Belatedly, she noticed she was hyperventilating. In an effort to calm her searing lungs, she began to chant:

"Basilisk. Also known as the King of Serpents. The first recorded Basilisk was bred by Herpo the Foul, a Greek Dark wizard and Parselmouth. The Basilisk is a brilliant green serpent that may reach up to fifty feet in length…" After extolling the virtues of the Basilisk, Augurey, and Scandinavian Bowtruckle, Hermione once again felt calm enough to act rationally.

Sliding onto her belly, she used her knees and good shoulder to worm her way to the edge of the room. Shimmying up the wall proved to be much harder than she would have thought. After jarring her bad shoulder three times she was finally upright. Although what to do now was still a blank. Her feet, bound tightly at the ankles, allowed her no room to move. Peering down, she examined the rope. After a few moments, her astonished mind came to the conclusion that it was not enchanted.

Using the wall as a support, Hermione shuffled into the corner. Tucking her chin down, she caught a mouthful of her sweater in her mouth and bit down. The spikes on the wall were not as sharp as she had originally thought and after several minutes of attempting to loosen the binds around her wrists, her shoulder gave out. Falling to her knees, Hermione's face barely skimmed one of the lower barbs, piercing the flesh.

Several hours later, two robed figures swept into the room. Hermione lay on her side, unconscious once more. The cut on her temple continued to bleed steadily. A small pool of blood lay next to her, her robes discolored and damp.

"Foolish mudblood," Lucius nudged her with the toe of his boot, sneering when his actions elicited a moan of protest.

"What has happened, father?" the other pouted, his voice unsteady. "You promised to leave her to me."

"Quit sniveling. I have done nothing to her. She has cut herself on the blades. They have been immersed in a potion. Crudus Libere. Without the antidote, she will die. Unfortunately, the only one I know of that can produce such a complicated elixir is Severus, traitorous mongrel. How very unfortunate," he sneered the last word.

"But father…" The younger shifted his weight.

"Have all the fun you wish, Draco. The cut is small. She will live another three days at the least. You may have her now, while she is still alive," Lucius swept out of the room, angered. His plans were thwarted once more by this inferior chit of a girl. Even a single bout of Cruciatus would cause internal bleeding that would kill her in seconds. Hardly worth it. Better to leave her in pain, her mind swimming as his son defiled her body. Lucius would simply have to content himself with Severus. Though how to get to him, was still proving difficulty.

Hermione could not control her shaking. She was going to die… biting her lip, she concentrated on Basilisk's, blocking out the sound of the approaching footsteps. The boots stopped only a foot away from her head.

Dragon hide.


	5. Tides

Tides

Draco crouched over Hermione's prone body. He reached out a hand and smoothed back a loose tendril of her hair. _She really is quite pretty, _he allowed. Her bushy hair was confined at the base of her neck and cascaded down to her hips. Secretly, Draco had always quite liked her hair. _She's grown into herself, _he thought almost sadly. Perhaps if she had been more plain she could have been spared. Perhaps if she had hidden her intelligence… and her lineage.

Grimacing in distaste, Draco set himself to the task ahead of him. There were certain things _expected_ of him. And his father would be most displeased if he did not…

Draco shuddered at the thought. Pulling a green silken handkerchief out of his robe pockets he gently touched it to her face, cleaning away as much crusted blood as he could. Underneath his fingers, he felt her quell beneath his touch. Pulling back, he rocked onto his heels and studied her. Her eyes, glazed over in pain or concentration, absorbed the light, showing almost black. Lightly, her lips moved. Frowning, he considered what he should do. Surely his father would not mind if he cleaned her wound before- THAT. If questioned he would say he did not want her filthy mudblood touching him. Yes, his father should accept that.

"Austy," he called into the dark room.

A faint pop caused Hermione to gasp in fright. Before her stood a battered looking house-elf. His blue eyes watered, and he quickly averted his gaze. "Yes, sir? What is the Master needing?" He squeaked.

"Bring me a bowl of warm water, please. And a few hand towels. And a robe of mine, I suppose," he asked, his voice unexpectedly polite.

A second later, warm water splashed onto his feet. Muttering a binding spell for his loose sleeves, he dipped a towel into the water. Taking a deep breath, he paused.

"Austy, what is that smell?" he glared at the figure cowering next to him.

"I am sorry, Master. Austy will punish himself most grievously for not following Master's orders. Austy is putting a strengthening potion into the water for the ma'am," the creature quivered in fright.

Draco rolled his eyes. "Good, Austy. That was very good of you. Now do help with this." Honestly, house-elves were sometimes not worth the effort. They needed to be coddled or else were likely to kill themselves. Still, he reflected as he wiped blood off of Hermione's neck, it saved him from doing menial tasks such as, shudder, dusting.

Draco threw down the bloodied towel and stood up suddenly, sending Austy trembling into a corner. "Merlin's Shin! She's not even blood awake anymore. She's barely bloody breathing! Every time I manage to bloody clean her bloody neck it's already bloody…bloody again," He finished lamely. With no one to aim his scorn at, his insults lacked a lot of their apathy. Glaring, he stalked about the room, desperately trying to formulate a plan.

Austy, sensing it was not he who made the Master angry, crept back to Hermione's side. Peering into her face, he let out a startled squeak.

"Shh, please," the bloody figure whispered softly. Only Austy's large ears enabled him to hear her.

"Since when is you awake?" Austy scolded just as softly, "You is scaring Master. He is thinking you is dead. You is lying to Master, but noble Master is helping lying ma'am."

"Why?" Hermione sighed. "It doesn't make sense."

"Of course is not making sense. Humans never is making any sense," Austy let out a panicked squeak. "Master should be knowing you is awake!"

Draco, still pacing, watched this silent exchange out of the corner of his eye, wondering why it did not anger him that Hermione had been playing possum. Perhaps it was because he had just been wishing she had been awake. _She'll know what to do!_ He thought excitedly before suppressing the thought.

"Granger," he voice icy more out of habit than disdain, "You're bleeding all over my floor."

Hermione's first instinct was to simply shut her eyes tightly once more. This, however, was not as likely to work the second time around. Breathing deeply Hermione fought to control her heart.

"Do with me what you will, Malfoy," Hermione said bravely, her watering eyes the only hint to her fear.

"Oh, do be quiet," Draco dismissed her with a casual flick of his hand. "How do I get you to stop bleeding onto my floor?"

Hermione shook with fright. _Why was this bastard playing at?_

Austy choose this moment to intervene on his Master's behalf. "Noble Master is trying to help ma'am. He is only wanting ma'am not to be bleeding anymore."

Draco, who had been coolly impassive in stance, suddenly suppressed the urge to fidget- a nervous habit he hadn't indulged in since grade school. Hermione's gaze pierced him, delving into such forbidden questions as _why?_

"I'm not as horrid as you seem to think I am," Draco defended himself.

Her stern gaze did not waver. She did not trust him. That much was painfully clear.

"It's not as if I wish you dead." His voice was steel. How dare she question his motives? He could be having his way with her, plunging into her depths, mindless of her pain in his ecstasy. Her robe lay half open, showing a low-cut undershirt. Her bosoms heaved in spite of herself, sweat glistening in the candlelight.

Draco strode to where she lay. Her honey eyes followed his movements as he sat next to her, mindless of the blood that stained his clothing. "I've seen enough death, Hermione. Please. Let me help you." His voice, schooled to be unforgiving, sounded so unlike itself. His eyes softened, gleaming bright.

Hermione did not move.

For several long moments the only noise in the room was Austy's gentle scrubbing. Draco, eyes downcast, refused to meet her narrowing gaze.

"What's happened to me?" she whispered finally.

Draco, still training his eyes downward, answered in clipped sentences. "There was a poison, Crudus Libere, in the spike. I've never heard of it before."

"Crudus Libere," Hermione tasted the words. "Translated that means…Bleed Free. Oh yes, I remember now. Crudus Libere, a powerful poison first used during the French Revolution was outlawed by the Code of Merlin 18:3:5 in March of 1921. Even in the most minute of doses, this potion if deposited into the blood stream will target all platelets in the host system, causing even the smallest of cuts to bleed continuously until death or the injection of the antidote. Unfortunately, this poison is one of the 64 unadversus poisons currently known to Potions Masters."

Draco looked at her pointedly. When it became apparent that Hermione was done with her anecdote, Draco rolled his eyes. "And what does all that mean, exactly?"

"Oh, honestly," Hermione couldn't help being irritated at his ignorance, even through the pain. "Unadversus means you can't simply distill the poison to discover an antidote. It's completely separate from the poison itself."

Draco's blank look didn't budge.

"It means I will die unless you get me to a Professor Snape," Hermione said. Snape would save her. She was sure of it. For a while, at the end of her sixth year, after Dumbledore had been killed, she had doubted his allegiance. But during the final battle, when her and Luna had unwittingly stumbled upon Bellatrix Lestrange's systematic torture of one Severus Snape, rather that using their blunder as a smoke cover to escape (a thought he later admitted to having), he fought through his pain to protect them.

"He'll help me."

His black robes swept out of the room, the door slamming at his retreating back. He rested his forehead on the cool oak, free from her piercing eyes. He was condemning her to die.

"I can't, Hermione. It's not an option," he whispered.

She heard.


End file.
